


One Week

by Snownut



Category: House M.D.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snownut/pseuds/Snownut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House needed something to do, that was for sure. Whether he was ready to go back to work or not—only time would tell. Final in the 'One night, One Day' series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

What good to us is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as a deliverer? --Sigmund Freud

In the cold, grey light he lay awake; staring at the ceiling. Shifting uncomfortably beneath the covers, he lifted one arm from the cocoon of warmth and rubbed his tired eyes. Gooseflesh raised along the exposed skin; testifying to the chill of the room—and the house—in general. Rolling his head along the pillow, he sighted the alarm clock on the bedside table in his periphery and sighed heavily at the hour; it was already 8:30. Given that Wilson had promised him a ride at nine, he reluctantly supposed he should get moving. Before, it wouldn't have taken him ten minutes to shower, dress and charge out the door—as long as he'd remembered to pick up his drycleaning—he'd have made it to work with time to spare. But that was before.

Now. Well, now he knew it would just take longer. Sliding his right hand beneath his thigh, he planted the left hand on the mattress and lifted himself—and the leg into a sitting position. Nerves sparked a warning at the sudden movement, and then settled down into white noise once more. He lifted the covers with his left hand, and cast them aside before cautiously easing his tortuous limb toward the edge of the bed. The leg trembled; the remaining muscle contracted painfully and set the nerve endings on fire. Hissing, he hitched in a deep breath and slid forward slowly until his legs dangled over the edge of the bed. First one, then another slow lurch forward and he was able to set his feet on the floor. Settled on the edge of the bed at last, he paused to regain his breath and stared blankly down at his bare feet until the spots faded from his vision.

On the bedside table, next to the alarm clock were all the accoutrements of his new life—an array of pill bottles both large and small. Benzothiazepine. Hydralazine. Lisinopril. And the newest addition, Embeda—a morphine sulfate and naltrexone hydrochloride blend that had been hailed as a wonder drug in the New England Journal of Medicine. With shaking, clammy hands he reached for each bottle; throwing back one pill at a time and chasing each with a sip of warm bottled water. He remembered the baggie of pre-mixed pills he'd assembled the night before and slipped it into the front pocket of his briefcase. Another glance at the clock showed twelve minutes had passed. Twelve minutes to sit up and slide to the edge of the bed. He bit his lip, crossing right leg over left and leaning to reach the crutches propped on the wall. Readying himself, he centered his left leg and thrust himself stiffly from the mattress. As he rose, he expertly settled the crutches beneath his armpits and wavered for a moment; seeking balance before slowly lowering his right foot to the floor. Five minutes to get to his feet. Shuffling forward on the crutches, he moved gingerly toward the bathroom one step at a time.

The ceramic tile was cold beneath his bare left foot. Without bothering to turn on the light he limped toward the toilet. Propping the crutches against the bath's half-wall, he fumbled with his pajama drawstring before letting them to fall to the floor. He relieved himself, then leaned against the wall to free his feet one at a time from the flannel pants before gathering the crutches up once more and hobbling five short crutch-steps to the sink. Crutches against the wall again, he leaned his left hip into the sink's countertop and balanced awkwardly on one foot. Cranking the water on, he splashed his face and stared forlornly at his image in the mirror. He looked older. Thinner. Appraising his appearance for a moment, he was startled to notice the deepening of the crow's feet around his eyes and quite a few new strands of gray in his hair. Sighing, he shook his head and took up his toothbrush.

Teeth brushed, hair combed—he limped back into the bedroom and paused before the closet. Shoving the door open, he silently studied his neatly pressed suits and selected a charcoal one that he lobbed toward the bed along with a blue dress shirt. He snatched a tie off the shelf, and slipped it around his neck before turning and making his way back to the bed. Sinking down on the mattress, he skimmed his t-shirt off before dressing his upper body effortlessly. He even looped the tie about his neck and tightened the knot before turning his attention to his traitorous lower half. For the first weeks—months—following his surgery he'd been unable to bear even the lightest fabric above the gaping wound. Even the gauze Hourani had initially packed on and around the site had been enough to drive him mad. He'd demanded it be taken off—as soon as he'd been cognizant enough to notice it. For months now, he'd opted to free-ball it at home and only slipped into shorts when on his way to an appointment.

Given that he'd been in a wheelchair for most of the past two months, he hadn't minded the sensation of boxers against his leg when sitting. There hadn't been any sense of discomfort from the way the fabric lay against his skin. Yet when he'd gained his feet, so to speak—the chafing of the shorts beneath the denser material of his workout pants had nearly been unbearable. So he'd switched to boxer briefs—with the right side rolled up just a little bit higher to avoid the surgical site altogether. Reaching into the top drawer of the bedside table, he withdrew both briefs and a pair of socks before sliding the drawer closed. One hand under his leg again, he scooted as close as he could to the edge of the bed and neatly dropped both items to the floor. He squared his jaw then; drawing one deep breath and then another before bending at the waist and leaning forward. Left leg flexed to bear his upper body weight, right leg fully extended; he slowly maneuvered the briefs over his right foot then lifted his left foot closer to step into them. Raising the briefs to his knees, he leaned forward once more to slip his socks on before sitting up again. Bringing the briefs up from his knees, he carefully guided the elastic over the scar and then leaned heavily to the left as he pulled them into position. Satisfied, he paused for a moment to breathe and rested one hand on his leg protectively. The nerves tingled beneath his reach; still agitated from the movement, and he hissed deep lungfuls of air in and out until the nerves quieted.

The dress pants were a similar production; throw to the floor, bend, pull and shift. He had no sooner paused to recover from the latter when the sound of Wilson's key in the lock caught his attention.

"House?" Wilson called, even though House could hear the squeak of his shoes on the linoleum when he closed the door.

"In here." he called back. Still partially winded from his bout of activity, he leaned back on the bed and let his weight melt into the mattress. Given that he'd only been awake—and productive—for a little over half an hour, he dreaded the interminable day ahead.

Wilson appeared in the doorway; still in his suit and winter coat. He leaned casually against the doorframe and studied House intently.

"You made it pretty far by yourself this morning." he commented lightly. House rolled his eyes.

"Mommy, I can dress myself now." he added tartly, and grinned to himself when Wilson shook his head in disgust.

"You think you can manage today? You could always extend your leave."

House shook his head. "I have to go in."

Wilson replayed every moment he'd spent with House since he'd been discharged. House had slowly regained his strength and instead of spending every moment sleeping or stoned, he'd begun to take an interest once more in reading, writing and music. Without glancing into the living room, he could picture the pile of medical journals and sheet music stacked haphazardly on the coffee table strewn with plates, mugs and empty water bottles. House needed something to do, that was for sure. Whether he was ready to go back to work or not—only time would tell. He shrugged then, watching with sad eyes as House pushed himself back into a sitting position before scooting back to the edge of the bed. He reached automatically for the Nikes that had been cast off on the floor, but House swatted him away and began loosening the laces. Wilson rolled his eyes, but when House finished he knelt obediently at House's feet to slip the shoes on and tie them.

"How's that feel?" he asked. By way of reply, House began the laborious process of getting to his feet. Once he was up, he crutched his way out to the front hall closet to get his coat. Wilson trailed along behind; retrieving House's cell phone and briefcase on his way. House was stooped uncomfortably on the crutches as he slid the bi-fold doors open and wrenched his dress coat off the metal hanger. Limping forward one step, he shoved the crutches against the wall and balanced on his left leg while he struggled into the sleeves. Now fully attired, he took up the crutches again and swung the front door open; staring out into the wintry landscape with a blank expression.

Wilson paused behind him, shoulders nearly touching in their proximity. He waited patiently; content to assist or wait for House to make the first move. House shifted his weight slightly, and asked without making eye contact; "Slippery at all?"

"No. Steps are clear. Sidewalk too, all the way to the car."

House nodded, and stepped out into the cold. Wilson followed; using his own keys to lock House's door and then trailed after him. House was starting to move faster with the crutches now; he'd already reached the passenger door and was lowering himself into the seat when Wilson took his own. House heaved the crutches into the backseat before turning himself and lifting his right leg in. He pulled the door shut and breathed noisily for a few minutes while Wilson started the car and fidgeted with the heater and vents. After a short pause, House moved to buckle his seat belt and stared blankly at the windshield. He looked tired already.

And it was only 9:30.

The hospital's corridors were not unfamiliar to him these past six months; though he ruefully reflected most of the time he'd seen it from a wheelchair's height rather than the eye level he was used to. Still, he mused, upright and walking—okay, crutching—was infinitely better than being wheeled through the hospital unable to look anyone in the eye.

He made his way to the elevator with Wilson in tow; standing on his left leg with the heel of his right foot resting lightly on the floor. Wilson was carrying his briefcase for him, and gave him a sidelong look of amusement before looking away again. He was still smiling.

"What?" he asked.

"Remember I told you Aldrich was asking about you the other day? I asked what you planned to tell him." Wilson's smile got bigger. Bastard.

"What about it?" House demanded irritably.

"I think you should decide what to tell him. Quickly."

"Why?" House ground out.

"Because he's headed this way." House turned as sharply as he could on one leg and two crutches, but Wilson was right. Aldrich was striding toward them with a concerned look on his face—concern mixed with relief.

"Greg!" he called anxiously and House rolled his eyes even as the tinny bell announced the elevator's arrival. House, Wilson and three young residents stepped on board, and House almost dared to hope they might duck Aldrich—only to be disappointed when his sweater clad arm was thrust between the doors in the nick of time. He stepped inside, wrapping House in a one-armed hug and squeezing tightly before letting him go once more. Shell-shocked, House said nothing even as Aldrich exclaimed over how much weight he'd lost—and the crutches—naturally.

"Greg! You look terrible—what happened? I heard—well, I heard you were dead."

House rolled his eyes again; staring forlornly at the ceiling as Aldrich went on and on about the rumored explanations for his lengthy disappearance. Aldrich was a sycophant at best; he was a burn specialist who dabbled in ID. He wasn't brilliant, but he wasn't bad. At the very least, House would take him seriously if he had a dog in need of a burn specialist. Aldrich had been pestering him for years now for the chance to work together—and to co-author a paper on the pathology of ID in burn victims. So far, House had allowed him to be a gopher and an occasional spy. Even sycophants had their uses. As far as Aldrich wanting to get the inside scoop—well, he wasn't going to get it from the source. In fact, he was fairly certain Hourani and Simpson would never divulge any information. HIPAA be damned, he had a feeling they were more frightened of Stacy than the confidentiality laws. Even as the elevator stopped at his floor, Aldrich continued to name possible explanations for his absence while he crutched past silently with Wilson following in his wake. Apparently there was no shaking the man, for even as House left the elevator he could hear Aldrich bellow; "It's good seeing you again, Greg! We'll catch up!"

Whatever. At least for the moment he was effectively gone and they were alone on the administrative floor. He crutched slowly down the carpeted hallway and he trained his gaze on the door to the ID bullpen intently. Step. Squeak. Step. Squeak. Step. Squeak. Above the sound of his uneven tread he could make out the sound of his own breathing growing louder and louder. He'd made it twenty-five steps from the elevator when he finally came to a halt, leaning heavily on the crutches. He could feel sweat dampening his dress shirt and beading along his hairline. The trembling muscles in his leg felt like they'd turned to water; and the misfiring nerves were radiating sparks up into his abdomen and back. He breathed through his mouth, and sluggishly tried to guess his heart rate when he saw Wilson set their briefcases down on one of the padded chairs along the bay of windows and come back to stand at his elbow.

"House? What do you need?" he asked a trifle loudly. Sluggish, but not mentally deficient, he gave Wilson a sharp, dirty look. Wilson sighed in exasperation. "You're tachy." He said quietly. He pushed at the lapels of House's heavy wool coat and House grunted faintly as he slid his arm out of first one sleeve and then the other. Wilson took the coat, and gestured at his suit jacket. "You want to keep that?"

House shrugged, and Wilson nodded as he helped House out of that layer as well. Without the added insulation, he could feel some of the sweat beginning to cool. His heart was still racing, and the pain in his leg was beginning to turn his stomach—but he felt as though he could go on without the added fear of blacking out. He resumed his trek to the bullpen; so focused on making it to his office before he collapsed that he didn't notice the surprised expressions of his colleagues as they took in his disheveled appearance. As he limped the last few steps to his desk he dimly noted no one had cleaned it in anticipation of his return.

In any case, he was relieved to have made it that far. He sat quietly, half hunched over his right leg and rubbing furiously when Wilson stepped inside and set the briefcase within reach before he knelt beside him. Wilson lifted his chin and pressed two fingers to his carotid; counting silently while House tried to ignore the dimming of his vision and the way his breath sounded loud in the silent room. After a long time, he began to come back to himself and stirred beneath Wilson's hand. Their eyes met, and Wilson reluctantly let his hand fall from House's neck.

"Are you in there?" he asked jovially, but House could see the worry lurking in his eyes.

"Yeah." House answered hoarsely. He tried to smile. "Guess the distance from the elevator to here was further than I thought. Not up to marathons yet in PT."

Wilson shook his head, and rubbed the back of his neck sympathetically. "You feel up to staying?"

"I'm sure as hell not walking back to the car right now." House mumbled faintly. He glanced up at Wilson, offering a pitiful attempt at a reassuring smile.

"Go on, Jimmy. I'll still be here when you get back."

The detritus of six months' accumulated work was scattered all over the desk's surface. Journals, files and hundreds of pink phone notes had accumulated; the pile fourteen inches high and stacked perilously against the wall. With one hand still cradling his leg, he reached toward the closest stack and rested the other hand upon it. The cool, slick cardstock of the journals was familiar; the crisp scent of the pages mixed with the smell of the coffee from the suite beyond. He breathed deeply, feeling some of his anxiety float away as he scooted his chair forward and began pawing through the clutter. Most of the files on top were newer cases; the older cases—patients he'd been seeing when the infarction had happened—were underneath. He gathered the files together—mostly in order—and set them in a pile. Next, he stacked the journals and then scrounged up the phone notes; throwing the repeated 'get well soon' wishes into the trash and collecting his patients' prescription refill requests to follow up on. The remainder were consult requests—and these he sorted by date and his level of interest.  
He was nearly finished—he'd even managed to uncover his keyboard—when without warning his leg tingled and then exploded into a fireball of pain. He barely had enough time to suck in a breath before it was stolen from him. He felt his jaw clench, hissing involuntarily as he curled around the rebellious limb. He felt his stomach turn; sweat broke out on his forehead. He panted, felt the bile rise in his throat. He retched; his abdominal muscles contracted in retroperistalisis and he half fell out of the chair. Gasping, he retched again at the pain and slumped forward onto the floor, forehead resting on the carpet. His vision dimmed; all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat singing in his ears before he slipped into darkness.  
Time passed.  
When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up into the underside of his desk. The carpet was rough beneath his cheek and the pain in his leg smoldered. Nerve endings tingled, but with none of the malicious intent of before. He longed for the chalky taste of medication on his tongue, but knew without looking it wasn't time to take one yet. Not unless he'd been out longer than he'd thought. He lay still for a long while; listening to occasional footsteps in the bullpen beyond—the ringing of a phone.  
Oh.  
His phone.  
He lifted his head from the floor and planted his palm into the thin carpet, pushing himself into a sitting position before blindly reaching up to the desk and snatching the handset.  
"Hello?" he asked roughly. There was a pause, and then Wilson spoke.

"Hey. How's it going?"  
House consulted his watch before answering; noticing nearly an hour had passed since Wilson had left. He guessed he'd been out for maybe twenty minutes. Without thinking about it, his gaze flickered to the briefcase Wilson had left sitting beside the desk. He could imagine the pills waiting inside; could feel their invisible weight in the palm of his hand.

"I found my keyboard." he said finally, and smiled faintly to hear Wilson chuckle.

"Now you see why I didn't want to grab anything off your desk. I was afraid of starting an avalanche."

"Yeah." he agreed absently. He slid one hand protectively under his thigh and squeezed slightly before letting go. The muscle was quiescent for the moment, but he knew another spasm was likely given his strenuous activity thus far. He made nice with Wilson for another few minutes before placating his way off the phone. He hadn't come to work to spend forty minutes working before passing out. Biting his lip, he hung up and then began the difficult process of climbing back into his chair. One palm planted on the floor; the other gripping the chair's armrest; he pushed himself up and back; blindly falling into the seat and biting his lip as the infarction site pulled but mercifully didn't go into spasm.

He breathed heavily; sighing in relief when he was able to pull his chair forward to the desk and pulled the keyboard close. It was half past eleven.  
Time to get to work.

Nearly an hour later, he cracked his neck to one side and then the other. He'd at least made headway on the backlog of emails. Eyeing the clock, he calculated the time of his last dose of painkillers and smiled in relief when he noted it was nearly time. Reaching down, he retrieved the baggie and set it on the desktop; smoothing the plastic and tracing the outline of the pills nestled inside. He decided something to drink was in order as well; he needed something to wash the meds down with. Pushing himself away from the desk with his left foot, he eased a hand along the length of his thigh gingerly. Nerves sparked beneath his touch, but remained quiet. Sighing gratefully, he flexed his right foot experimentally before grabbing his crutches and rising slowly. Weight appropriately balanced, he stepped cautiously around the trash can near the edge of the desk and crutched out into the bullpen beyond.  
"Hey, House." Someone called, and he grunted a reply as he made his way into the kitchenette. "How you doing?" Kaplan.  
The assistant department head was staring at him levelly; as if gauging his recovery for himself. House paused before the refrigerator for a second before freeing up his right hand to open the door. He stared into the depths for a time before remembering anything he'd had in there would be truly beyond its' expiration date. With a slow, cumbersome about face he limped to the coffee pot before turning to face his unwanted guest.

"Better." he conceded quietly. He released the right crutch and leaned it against the countertop while he reached up to get a mug out of the cabinet. He'd no sooner brushed the surface of the mug with his fingers when Kaplan slipped in and got it for him. And instead of handing the mug over to House to do it himself, he carried over to the pot and filled it for him.

"Thanks." he muttered when Kaplan handed the mug over. He sipped at it for a second, leaning back into the counter and letting his right leg rest with his heel on the floor. Kaplan gave him a hopeful smile, and instead of leaving as House hoped he would; he crossed his arms and shifted to stand there for the long haul. His leg twitched, and he sighed in exasperation when he remembered his meds were still on the desk in his office.

"You look pretty good. Did you have a chance to look at the cases I wrapped up for you?"

House shook his head. "Not yet. Still playing catch up."

"Did what I could to crunch the budget numbers for you, too. The board will still want you to sign off on them, but obviously you'll have an extension."

"Thanks." he said again, throwing back larger swallows of coffee in the hopes of crutching back into the privacy of his office. The last thing he wanted to do on his first day back was get into the groove of running the department again. He didn't want to think about conducting reviews or going over case files or crunching the department's budget.

"How much—" Kaplan started to ask, but House spotted his savior—in the lanky form of Wilson—entering the bullpen.

"Wilson!" he called. "Glad you're here." He continued loudly. As Wilson drew closer, Kaplan nodded in understanding. He'd learned Wilson was ferocious when it came to defending House; he'd been reproached several times for trying to send work home to him. Or when he'd called to ask questions—yes. Best to leave before Wilson caught him.

"Glad you're back, House. Take care." Kaplan muttered quickly before darting away.

"What was that?" Wilson asked as he strolled in. He took in House's lean form; leaning back against the cabinets with his right heel resting lightly on the floor.

"How'd it go this morning?"

House shrugged before offering the half-full mug to Wilson and taking up his crutches. Wilson noted he looked tired and drawn—but overall better than he'd dared hope for House on his first day back.

"Okay."

"Ready to go home?" he asked, following House back into his office.

"Yeah. " House agreed tiredly. He rubbed his forehead; suddenly feeling the full effect of the morning's activity wash over him. He snatched the baggie off the desk and threw back all six pills simultaneously; two Embeda, one Benzothiazepine and three Hydralazine. While he swallowed, he contemplated his accomplishment. He'd made it; he'd gotten back to work.

Now all he wanted to do was go home; sleep, and let the medication kick in.

Work could wait.


	2. Tuesday

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.  
\- John Lennon

The line was snaking through the parking lot when Wilson nudged his BMW into last place. Unable to stop himself, he counted fifteen cars between them and caffeinated bliss. His leg twinged, and he caught his breath sharply even as his hand flew to massage it. Wilson turned a sympathetic gaze on him, and he forced his hand to still.

"This is what's wrong with America. It's not healthy to have so few choices." he commented tersely, and Wilson groaned aloud.

"Not now." Wilson shook his head. "I need coffee before you start ranting about existentialism."

"Then technically, you are what's wrong with America."

"Shut up." Wilson commanded, though he was smiling. House rubbed his palm lightly over his leg, enjoying the warmth of friction. The silence was comfortable for once; the ordinary early morning quiet between friends. Staring out into the parking lot, he idly people watched while Wilson inched the car forward until they finally reached the ordering window.

"Venti carmel macchiato with two shots of espresso. And a raspberry scone."

The barista repeated it back to him, and then asked; "Anything else?"

"House?" Wilson prompted, and he realized he'd been drifting off. He'd been lost in the rhythmic massage of his leg and the comforting warmth of the heater. He inhaled noisily, thinking fast.

"Chai tea. And a blueberry muffin."

"You okay?" Wilson asked once he'd handed over his credit card.

"Fine. Still tired." He admitted reluctantly. He'd half-hoped Wilson hadn't noticed him dozing off.

"You can—" Wilson started to say, but stopped when House shook his head emphatically.

"I'm fine. It's early. Not used to getting up so early yet." He rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter, always mindful of the way he needed to hold the leg still while the rest of him moved. His morning had gone swimmingly—insofar as he could tell on his second day back to work—and he'd even been ready this time when Wilson had come to pick him up at nine thirty. Still, something nagged at him. He shook his head, trying to dispel the unnerving feeling of something forgotten. It wasn't until Wilson pulled forward in the drive thru that he finally remembered what he'd missed.

"Shit." He said aloud, even as he accepted the paper Starbucks cup Wilson handed him.

"What, too hot?" Wilson looked ready to snatch the cup from him, and he cradled it close. Settling it into the cup holder, he took the brown paper bag and lay it on his lap while Wilson settled his own cup.

"No. Shit. I forgot the department head meeting this morning."

"What time does it start?" Wilson asked. He took a handful of napkins and threw them at House as he pulled out onto the street once more. He accelerated slowly; always mindful of the way House moved with the starts and stops at every light and stop sign. He sipped cautiously at his macchiato while House rummaged in the bag for his muffin.

"Ten, I think." Having unearthed the muffin, Wilson expected him to dive right in, but House wrapped it in a napkin and shoved it into his briefcase. Either his pain levels were up, or he was anxious about the meeting he was missing—since it had started some ten minutes earlier. Luckily for House, the hospital was within spitting distance, and he'd pulled up to the main doors two minutes later. House opened the door and turned to rise; accepting the crutches that Wilson offered him before getting laboriously to his feet. He eyed the chai tea in the cup holder for a long moment, and Wilson nodded.

"I can bring it up with your briefcase." Wilson offered, and House nodded. He stared up at the brick façade even as Wilson went to go park.

He hadn't meant to be late. He knew he was already fifteen minutes into the meeting, and he'd be damned if he was much later than that. He crutched swiftly enough to the second floor that he could feel sweat staining his armpits and beading his hairline. The leg was beginning to protest his hurried pace, and he hoped he could make it in before it gave out. He could see them all seated at the rectangular table through the vertical blinds and he hurried on; pushing the glass door open and wedging a crutch there to hold it while he limped inside. Silence fell; the squeak of his crutches and his labored breathing were the only noise in the room for a long moment.

"Dr. House." Kassab greeted from near the projector. House guessed him to be leading a presentation of some kind, if the powerpoint frozen on the screen was any indication. "It's good to see you back."

House nodded; turning his attention to the back of the room where the one empty seat remained. Hunching his shoulders, he took one step forward as Cuddy shifted as if to rise from her chair beside the door.

"Would you like-?" she began to ask, and he shook his head. She fell mercifully silent and he crutched into the space between the table and the window. The aisle was narrow; even after everyone obligingly moved their chairs closer to the table. Sweat gathered and saturated the back of his dress shirt. He clenched the pads of the crutches tightly as he stepped into the narrow space. Watching the floor closely, he took one cautious step. And then another. Step. Squeak. Step. Squeak. Someone cleared their throat, and he flinched; tearing his eyes from the floor to look up. He expected laughter. He expected solicitous requests for help. He hadn't expected this silent audience while he struggled to make it to a seat. But no one moved. No offer came. He breathed faster; feeling the room tilt. Whether the vertigo was from hyperventilating, or simply the unnerving feeling of being watched; he couldn't guess. Above the blood singing in his ears and the sweat slicking his palms he dimly registered the jarring catch of his right crutch as he lifted it. The crutch was caught; wedged between a briefcase strap and the table's foot. His mind froze; time slowed. Bereft of the crutch; he instinctively tried to extend his right leg to catch himself. But even that simple movement was beyond his ability now. Already aggravated by the fast pace he'd set throughout the morning, the leg crumpled beneath him. He gasped; anticipating but still unprepared for the searing pain that engulfed him when his right foot buckled and his knee touched down on the carpet. The jarring impact to his knee registered dully beneath the inferno that rushed through his quad. He let out an involuntary scream before remembering he wasn't alone. He bit down hard on his lip; just barely able to stifle the second scream that rose in his throat. Breathing hard, he swallowed thickly when the nausea rose and just managed to avoid throwing up on the spot. Beneath the pain, he vaguely registered when Cuddy dropped to her knees beside him and checked his pulse. Over his breathless panting, he couldn't hear what she was saying, but felt hands wrap about his upper arms moments later and lift him effortlessly to the chair at the end of the table.

"House?" Cuddy was asking. "House?" She was kneeling beside him again; her tiny fingers pressed to his carotid. He opened his eyes slightly, feeling his respiration slow as the pain loosened its' hold on him.

"Yeah?" he breathed. His lips felt dry, but the rest of him was soaking wet.

"You were down the rabbit hole." She said softly. He lifted his chin slightly, noticing in horror the way everyone in the room was staring at him. He closed his eyes then, letting his head hang in shame. "Are you going to be all right?" she asked tenderly. He nodded without opening his eyes. He sat silently; not moving, not daring to breathe until Cuddy rose to her feet and sat down once more. Until he couldn't feel the heat of their stares penetrating him any more. He calmed still further when Kassab began to speak once more and the meeting resumed.

Tattered nerve endings sparked in his leg; but the overwhelming pain had more or less dissipated. Safely hidden beneath the table, he wrapped both hands protectively about his leg and gently slid it into a more comfortable position. He held his breath while he moved, and then breathed out in relief when the pain eased still further. He made an attempt to sit upright, contorting his upper body as he slid out of his wool coat and lay it on his lap. One of the doctors seated next to him—Neilson, he thought—slid him a copy of the day's agenda. He nodded in acknowledgement; knowing by the absence of a wedding ring that Neilson was one of the men who had picked him up off the floor. Neilson gave him a ghost of a smile even as he returned his attention to Kassab up front.

Pretending to be absorbed in the agenda, he covertly watched his colleagues. To their credit, none of them were watching him. He felt his cheeks flare with embarrassment once more, and shifted uncomfortably as he tried to tune into Kassab's presentation. His attention was continuously diverted with every twitch and tingle in his leg. He breathed carefully, waiting; hoping that the pain wouldn't take him down again. Nerves sparked again in warning; he could feel the unrelenting pain ramp up in his leg. This time, he saw stars before everything went sightlessly black. He panted; the pain had stolen the breath from him. He reached shakily for the edge of the table and clutched it for dear life. His stomach turned; saliva began to pool in his mouth and he gasped aloud as his abdominal muscles heaved. Retching, he dimly registered the cool surface of the table beneath his cheek and the disgusted sound someone made as they scooted away in a hurry before the darkness took him under.

It was quite a while later when he regained awareness. He felt the ache of a needle in the vein atop his hand and the cool burn of fluids running in. Opening his eyes, he blinked heavily into the light and stared dully at the window while his senses came back online. Bright white hospital walls glowed in the late afternoon sunlight. This, at least, was familiar.

"Hey."

Wilson. He sighed faintly, letting his head loll to the left on the pillow. Wilson was leaning back in his padded chair; Styrofoam cup in one hand. House tried to swallow, and nodded in gratitude when Wilson poured him a cup of water and offered it to him. He slapped one hand on the bed controls and took the cup as he was lifted upright. His leg, he noticed; offered no protest. He took a sip of water; swallowed, and took another before he was able to speak.

"Hey." He greeted quietly.

"You feel any better?" Wilson leaned forward, looking grave.

"Yeah." He agreed sheepishly. "Numb, now."

"Morphine. 75 mg. Even after you passed out, you were locked into the pain. We added fluids, too. Never hurts to get a top off."

"Who'd I puke on?"

"Miller. He was pretty pissed, I guess."

"Probably doesn't see much puke in cardiology." House offered lamely. Wilson tried to smile.

"Probably not." He agreed. "How's the pain?"

" A four, probably."

"The Embeda working for you?"

"Sure." House agreed. He finished the water and toyed with the empty cup absently.

"Kaplan called to tell me he found you out cold yesterday in your office. Said he tried to rouse you, and you were semi-conscious. Since you were coming around—I told him to head on out. Give you space."

"I'm fine."

"Passing out two days in a row isn't fine, House."

"Maybe it's my new baseline." he offered lamely. "The pain resets after I'm out-so it's not all bad."

"You can't see patients if you're going to keep toppling over." Wilson pointed out smoothly.

"Fine by me." House agreed, and smirked when he heard Wilson sigh in exasperation.

"House—"

"It's fine." He said shortly, and listened to Wilson push his chair back from the edge of the bed. He waited; sensing Wilson had far more to say but was reluctant to speak. Truthfully, he didn't want to listen, either. He smirked again, and waved the water cup.

"Guess it's too late to get my chai, huh?"

Wilson smiled too. "It was pretty milky when I tossed it out."

"My muffin?" he asked, and Wilson shook his head.

"In your office."

House brought his hands together and deftly pinched the IV tubing with his index finger and thumb as he withdrew the needle. Wilson sighed, but dutifully rose to retrieve a band-aid and cotton ball from the cart near the door. He offered both wordlessly before turning the IV pump off while House patched the needle site and threw the blankets back. He shifted gingerly as if he intended to rise, only to freeze when Wilson appeared next to him.

"I'm taking you home for the rest of the day." Wilson said in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Are you my mother now?" House asked coldly. He slid his legs over the bed; pleased to see he hadn't been stripped and put back into a hospital gown. "I'm fine."

"Cuddy said you went down the rabbit hole. Not once, but twice. And the second time you didn't come out."

"I'm fine." He insisted, sliding one sock covered foot to the floor before bringing the right leg down to join it. His crutches were leaning beside the bed, and he took them up gratefully.

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked softly. "You don't need to suffer. They'll understand—"

"I passed out in a meeting." House said flatly. He leaned heavily on the crutches, looking so morose Wilson longed to hug him. "I can't—" he paused, ducking his head so Wilson couldn't see his eyes before continuing softly. "Nothing's the same any more. So many things I can't—I have to know something still works. I have to do this."

Wilson studied him for a long moment. Fatigue and defeat were etched into his features as he stood slumped over his crutches. And something else; determination. In the months after the infarction and Stacy's disappearance, determination had been hard for House to come by.

"Go home for the day. Just today." He added, seeing that House had opened his mouth to protest. "Even if you don't want to admit it, I know you're pretty much done for after a spasm that bad. You had an illness." He said softly. "You had an illness. And no one could begrudge you time to recover."

House snorted, and Wilson smirked. "Okay, some people might begrudge you the time. But you know I'm right. Take the day. Work from home. I'm sure you can check out porn at home just as well as you could here."

House grinned, and limped over to the chair in the corner. Sinking down, he set the crutches aside and wiggled the toes of his left foot in silent entreaty. Wilson rolled his eyes, but retrieved House's shoes from under the bed. He knelt at House's feet, and ignored House's cheeky grin.  
House would always be House—and some things would never change.


	3. Wednesday

The exercise of an extraordinary gift is the supremest pleasure in life.  
\- Mark Twain

It was the final fade of light that tuned him into the weather. The natural light that had been warm and comforting on arrival that morning had suddenly vanished; and he'd glanced up from the journal he'd been browsing to find it unnaturally dark. Startled, he lay aside his reading glasses and shifted one hand beneath his right leg to cradle the limb before scooting the chair over to the window. Steel gray clouds had overtaken the horizon as far as he could see; hanging oppressively low. Had he been able to open the window, he knew he would find the sharp scent of the heavy snow to come. A rumble of thunder seemed to carry along his overtaxed muscles and twinged deep in the muscle tissue. Sighing, he gripped his thigh tighter as sparks shot along his ruined nerves. It had been a wonderful morning. The looming storm promised a troubling afternoon.

For his third day back to work, he'd been pleased to rise, dress and arrive at the hospital with a minimum of fuss. Every step—from the car to the door of his office had been more steady and sure than he could remember in recent days. So he'd settled down to resume the tedious process of slogging through the backlog of paperwork on his desk. An hour into the project, he'd moved enough of the patient files and films to unearth a backlog of medical journals. The cover of a neurological journal had caught his eye; the lure of a troubling neurological presentation proved difficult to resist after the boredom of organizing and he'd settled back in his chair without another thought.

Now, though; he lingered near the window, the article all but forgotten. He slid his palm from beneath his leg to rest it on top. The warmth was comforting; and the slight pressure soothed the ache that was building. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting; lost in thought—when the sound of the door opening riveted his attention. Wilson stood in the doorway; neatly backlit from the hall beyond. He stepped inside, and set several Styrofoam containers down on the desk wordlessly. The first few months after the infarction—he hadn't had an appetite due to the pain. And ironically, once the pain was under control—he hadn't had an appetite due to the meds. He'd suffered through five months of parenteral feedings before they'd worked out a pain management plan that allowed him to resume regular meals. He still struggled with it, though.

"Brought some lunch." Wilson said needlessly, and House rolled his eyes. Despite his irritation at being mothered, the scent of fried rice and wontons was making his mouth water. Even though his leg was shooting sparks along every nerve ending and seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the approaching storm.

"You need to eat." Wilson said firmly, taking in the way House was huddled in the chair. Apparently, he hadn't taken notice of House's sudden interest in the rustling of the bag, or the puddle of drool beginning to form beneath his chin. Typical. "You haven't managed much since starting work again."

"I'm fine." House said automatically.

Wilson gave him a long look, but said nothing more as he divided the portions of rice and beef and broccoli between their respective containers. A bag of wontons was set between them, and Wilson dropped down into one of the straightbacked chairs across from House's desk. There was little noise for a few minutes as they snapped their chopsticks in half and tucked into their lunches. He ate enthusiastically for the first few minutes; the wontons were creamy and crispy, the beef succulent and the broccoli perfectly steamed. But within a short time he found himself very full, very quickly. Wilson gave him a sharp look, but said nothing as he absently toyed with the chopsticks and moved half his meal around in his carton. Frustrated, he sighed aloud and gave up in defeat.

"That all you can eat?" Wilson asked conversationally as he tucked the flaps in on the carton and set it aside. He slid a hand beneath his thigh once more and shifted to lean back in his chair.

"I'll have more later." He promised half heartedly. He leaned back, put his feet up on the desk and snagged the briefcase strap as he pulled it from behind the chair into his lap. With one eye on the clock, he rummaged for the baggie of pills he'd stashed the night before. Two Embeda, one Benzothiazepine, three Hydralazine. He downed them in pairs, chased each with a swig of water. Wilson shook his head in wry amusement as he watched House suck down his meds.

"The Embeda's working for you?" he asked again, and House rolled his eyes.

"It's fine." He said sincerely, and set the briefcase back down on the floor as he played with the bottle cap in his fingers. They sat together in silence for a time; content to stare out into the wind chased clouds. With a sigh,Wilson gave him a long look as he checked his watch and rose to his feet. He gathered the debris from their lunch and stuffed it back into the bag.

"Need anything before I go?" Wilson asked kindly, and House shook his head. He was starting to feel the effects of his busy morning; along with the painkillers he'd topped lunch off with. His head was starting to spin. Damn. Couldn't even make it through the day without a nap.

"No. I'm fine." He shook his head again; felt his eyes flutter closed. The room swam; even as Wilson stepped close and dropped a fleece blanket over the top of him. He blinked owlishly up at him; scowling.

"I'm not an invalid." he muttered. He longed to shrug the blanket aside and sit up, but he only sank down heavier in the chair. He felt delicious lethargy steal over him and he blinked slowly as Wilson moved away; one shuttered step at a time. When he reached the door, House had nearly lost the battle for consciousness. Wilson turned down the lights, and watched House's chin sink down to rest on his chest. He was out cold when Wilson closed the door; he didn't even stir.

The ringing of his office phone slowly woke him; he opened one eye to squint into the dimly lit office in annoyance. Warm and comfortable beneath the fleece blanket, he was reluctant to leave the safety of his nest. He longed to fall asleep once more; but the phone's incessant ring penetrated into his sleep fogged mind and pulled him from slumber. He sat up, groaning faintly as he set numbed feet down on the floor. The blanket pooled about his waist and tangled around his feet. He winced as the nerves awoke in his right leg; sending a flash of heat from foot to hip. Breathless, he leaned forward and snagged the phone as the call went to voicemail.

"Hello?" he asked hoarsely.

There was a long pause while the tape turned off, and then the caller spoke. "Is this Dr. House?"

"Yes." He said tersely, shifting his left foot to the floor to impel himself closer to the desk again.

"My name is Dr. Tarika Luini. I'm a dermopathologist at Johns Hopkins. I wondered if you would be willing to consult on a case?"

Dermopathology? He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and cleared his throat. "How did you get my number?"

"Er—This is actually Dr. Gilmar's case. He suggested the presentation might interest you." Loony sounded like she had a sexy voice. Maybe she was hot, too. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to remember if he'd given Gilmar his contact info, or if the old bastard had somehow snooped him out. Again. He sighed; feeling conflicted. Gilmar had been one of his mentors at Hopkins; the old man definitely knew what interested him. And, of course, there was the whole gratitude-thing. Maybe even a free dinner.

Why not?

"I'll look at it." He agreed, swiveling in his chair to face the fax machine in the corner. "Fax me the chart." He rattled off the number and hung up, resting his right hand atop the leg and staring pensively out into the dim, misty landscape.

The fax had begun shortly after he'd hung up the phone; spinning through the existing paper before he had time to begin gathering the still warm pages. He'd scooted the chair to the door and bellowed down the hallway; gratified when a harried looking med student obediently appeared and loaded a new ream in for him. He was even more pleased when the same student ran out again without looking back. Smirking, he used his left foot to return to his desk and began sorting the information. Donning his glasses, he turned on the desk lamp and turned his attention to deciphering the chart.

Fifty-two year old woman; moderately obese with a BMI of 29.71. G4P3; no relevant past medical history to speak of. No known allergies. BP and pulse normal; heart rate and rhythm normal. Presentation began with fatigue, weight loss, fever. Joint pain that ranged from moderate to severe. Primary decided it was influenza—sent the patient home with a prescription cephalosporin. Idiot.

Patient returned claiming to have followed the full course of cephalosporin with continuing complaints; primary ordered lab work. Irritated, he grumbled to himself about locking the barn door after the horses had come home. He shuffled the pages and continued—despite knowing the outcome. All values returned normal. Primary ordered another round of antibiotics; this time the tried-and-true penicillin. Again, no effect.

"Can't kill a bug without knowing what it is." He muttered aloud as he pressed on through the chart. After a time, he paused in his reading; unable to shake the feeling of being watched. He glanced up suspiciously at the door to find Wilson staring at him with an unreadable look on his face. How long had he been there?

"What?" he demanded crossly. Truthfully, he wasn't annoyed by Wilson's presence. This time. He'd been thinking of getting up for coffee; but now, he wouldn't have to.

"Kaplan mentioned you were working on a case. Did you scare something up in the clinic?"

He snorted. "As if."

Wilson grinned. "But you are working on a case."

"I need to find a new AD if he keeps this up. He's running to you for everything. Don't you have something to do?" he asked in exasperation.

"Where'd you get it?" Wilson asked, moving away from the door and drifting toward a chair. Thinking quickly, he grabbed one of the crutches beside the desk and blocked the seat.

"Coffee. Two sugars—" he ordered. "and a box of animal crackers."

"What am I, your slave?" Wilson asked doggedly.

"Hey, I didn't invite you in here." House pointed out mildly, feeling proud when Wilson's lip curled. He shrugged out of his lab coat, which he hung on the back of the chair and shot House one last glower before walking out of the room.

"No cream!" he shouted after him. Satisified, he returned to the patient history. The joint pain was interesting; the idiot primary had noted in the second visit that the patient experienced a 'locking' sensation in her hands and knees. He played with his bottom lip absently; relishing in the sensation as his mind wandered. Before he could really dive into the problem, a mug of coffee appeared before him. In the slight chill of the room, steam wafted off the mug and he wrapped his hands around it gratefully. Wilson set the box of animal crackers down and lowered himself into the chair across the desk with a put-upon sigh.

"You're welcome." he said dryly. House ignored him as he sipped the coffee before diving into the box of cookies. "So. The case. Where'd you get it?"

House shrugged, chewing and chasing his mouthful with another sip of coffee before answering.

"Gilmar."

"As in Gilmar from Hopkins? I thought he didn't have an active practice any more?"

"He doesn't. Don't know how he got it. Don't care."

He kept one hand curled around the mug, and reached again for the chart with the other. Joint pain. Rheumatoid arthritis? No. MRI reported inflammation within multiple joints in the hands. Polyarthritis then. He noted Wilson reaching across the desk for the pages he'd already discarded and sighed aloud; his concentration broken once more.

"Seriously. Trying to work here." he whined, even as Wilson shot him a glare and pulled the pile closer.

"Whatever this is, Kaplan said you were lost to it like a hound on the scent for over an hour. Said he tried to get your attention, but you didn't even acknowledge him. He came and went twice, and then came to get me."

Twice? House blinked, startled. He couldn't remember Kaplan coming by even once. Surely he'd have noticed twice?

"I noticed you." House said weakly, still struggling to recall Kaplan's presence.

"I was there for ten minutes."

"I noticed you." he said flatly.

"It's not like you to take that long. You're the most observant person I know." Wilson leaned forward; concern showing in his eyes. "I'm worried about you. You're sleeping—"

House felt anger rise; he shoved the fleece blanket off his lap and gripped the mug fiercely to keep from throwing it as he leaned forward to meet Wilson's gaze. "I'm fine." he said through gritted teeth. "I don't need Kaplan babysitting me—and I don't need you, either."

Both men were silent for a moment; Wilson struggling to find the right words and House trying to ease the sense of betrayal he felt keenly.

"I'm just trying to help." Wilson said softly, and House ducked his head away and sighed.

"I'm fine." he insisted sharply, and Wilson rose to his feet. He kept his gaze downturned as he shrugged into his lab coat and started toward the door. He paused, however, and spoke once more.

"I'm just trying to help." Wilson said again to the floor.

"I don't need your help." House said, bitingly. Yet, even as he said it; he knew that it wasn't true. He did need help. Wilson had been his maid, his cheerleader and his nanny since Stacy had left. The cooking, cleaning, laundry—even the driving—had been beyond him in the months since the infarction. He'd either been stoned out of his mind or too weak to care. And the hours spent at work—even with a midday nap—left him utterly wiped out by the end of the day… He knew he wouldn't make it through a day without Wilson—and that knowledge stung his already wounded pride.

Wilson nodded; shoulders bunched as he started forward once more. He left without a backward glance, and House sighed loudly in the silence of the room. Rubbing one hand wearily over his face; he debated whether to resume the case—or seek Wilson out. As if in warning, his leg tingled, and he tensed about it; holding himself against the pain that lurked beyond his sight. Still. Just stay still, he told himself. Only his mind could move, his thoughts circling about the case until the worry about Wilson was driven away. The chart was in his mind. Every sentence, every symptom highlighted. The answer was there—somewhere.

It started with polyarthritis.

Negative response to two classes of antibiotics. Development of cobblestone papules and Koebner phenomenon. Paraproteinenemia. Cold agglutinins. Cryoglobulinemia. Hypergammaglobulinemia. Rh negative. Elevated erythrocyte sed rate, neutrophils and mononuclear cell count. Huh.

He exhaled, feeling the leg quiescent beneath his hands. Slowly, he cautiously inched himself upright; sitting back before easing the chair into a reclined position and lifting his leg up on the desktop. Now able to maintain a sitting position, he reached for the paper chart and his glasses; pleased to resume his reading instead of conjuring from memory. Satisfied that his leg was going to cooperate, he resumed his differential by diving into the radiology reports.

Bilaterally symmetric, sharply circumscribed erosions spread from the margins to the joint surfaces. Separation of the bone ends, but no subchondral sclerosis and little or no periosteal reaction, and no sign of osteoporosis. He paused then, slipping his glasses down and rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose wearily. Nothing. Well, nothing aside from the inflammation caused by the polyarthritis. He briefly considered requesting the films to see if they missed something—but odds were good they were clean.

Sighing, he lay the reports aside and reached cautiously for the pile he'd made of pathology notes; always mindful of the way he stretched to avoid irritating his leg. He brought the pile closer, setting it within easy reach from the edge of the desk before sitting back again. He moved one more time; snagging the coffee cup and throwing back the last bitter mouthful. Grimacing, he considered getting up and refilling it, but decided against it. He was comfortable and his leg was quiescent; why risk it? He set the cup back down and leaned back in the chair, sifting through the pile of paper until he unearthed an interesting-looking black-and-white path report with a grainy, photocopied image of the histology. He pushed his glasses back up and resumed reading.

Skin lesions presented in the form of multiple cutaneous nodules on the face and fingers, varying in size from 1-10mm. The papulonodules of the skin consisted of a diffuse infiltration of macrophages with abundant eosinophilic ground-glass cytoplasm. He paused then, unconsciously placing a finger to hold his place as he sifted through the countless possibilities in his mind. Histiocytes could be found after blind biopsies of synovium in patients with unclassified arthritis, though they lacked the skin lesions. The characteristic histiocytes could be huge or bizarre and multinucleated. Lymphocytes or eosinophils could be present. He closed his eyes, rested one hand on his leg and rubbed gently as he took stock once more.

Giant multinucleated cells with a pale, fine, granular eosinophilic cytoplasm. Acid-Schiff stain—really?—with a positive result and diastase-resistant. Interesting. Lipid stain, acid phosphatase, nonspecific esterase and lysoenzyme stains positive. Results of S100 protein and alpha-1-antitrypsin negative. Huh. He chewed on his lip thoughtfully. Langerhans granules absent on electron microscopy. In synovial biopsy, lipid-laden giant cells and histiocytes were seen on skin biopsy. He stayed still, mulling the facts over and over in his mind. Only his hand moved, over and over his leg rhythmically.  
He forgot about coffee, he forgot about the weather; he didn't hear the sound of phones ringing or choppy footsteps up and down the hallway. He didn't register the fade of light as the clouds grew heavier, or the sound of voices growing closer. There was only the sizzle of nerves beneath his skin and the warmth of his hand as it passed over the leg again and again. Just himself, reduced to this one feeling; this one moment.

"House?" Wilson asked suddenly, and light faded back in. Warm, yellow light spilled back into his vision as the lamp on the desk was turned on. Wilson was kneeling beside him, holding his wrist in one hand. He looked worried, and House wondered idly when he'd come in. "How are you doing?"

He wanted to answer; but couldn't make himself shift gears from the case to himself. And then it was there; the thought drifted up to him from the depths; the answer to the case. But he had to say it now. Say it now, before it dissipated and he had to go looking for it again.  
So instead of answering he said; "Reticulohistiocytosis."

"House?" Wilson asked again, his eyes widening in concern. House blinked in confusion as Wilson turned to speak someone beyond the curtain of his vision. Didn't Wilson understand? He'd given him the answer. Wilson's fingers moved against his wrist again, saw him speak the word 'bradycardic'.

Bradycardia? That wasn't a symptom. He shook his head, shifting to lift his legs from the desk to the floor. His vision faded; inky blackness seeping in around the edges. His left leg moved obediently, but his right leg refused to obey. Sparks shot through his leg and his vision exploded into stars. He groaned aloud, audibly registering the jolt to his leg as his foot hit the floor. He retched, leaning forward sharply to let his head hang over the floor. And just like that, sensation returned. He felt the bile rise in his throat; felt the burning in his nose and the clammy sweat that broke out on his forehead as he vomited. He gasped; registering the sour taste of coffee and chalky animal crackers in his mouth. Thank God his lunch had already passed into the small bowel. He could feel Wilson's hand on his back; could hear Kaplan speaking to Cuddy.

"House?" Wilson asked, and he nodded. He could feel Wilson's hand relax against him; he grasped the edge of the desk and tried to sit up. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck, in his armpits and pooled beneath his dress shirt. Wilson helped, cradling House's wrist again once he was settled.

"You're up to sixty seven now."

"What was it before?" he asked breathily.

"Fifty two. Did you take something?"

House shook his head. Sitting up, he could make out Kaplan and Cuddy in the doorway to his office. In the hallway beyond, he could see a few other people milling around. Great. Just great. Beside him, Wilson was rising to his feet.

"I took my last meds after lunch. Nothing else." House clarified. He felt himself begin to flush beneath the cold sweat that soaked him. Something tugged at his memory, but simmered just out of reach. Dammit.

"Easy. I believe you." Wilson murmured, and House realized he'd been clenching his jaw. Wilson believed him. He relaxed then, feeling some of the tension drain away. Wilson nodded to him even as he turned to Kaplan and Cuddy.

"He was bradycardic when I came in. Oriented times two." Kaplan was saying.

"I'm fine." House whispered, but no one noticed.

"He was unresponsive when you came in, Dr. Kaplan?" Cuddy was asking. "House, are you in pain?"

House shook his head, and Wilson sighed. "You said something when I asked if you were all right?" he prompted. House looked up at him blankly, and then it dawned on him. The case. He'd been trying to remember. How had he forgotten?

"Reticulohistiocytosis." he said hoarsely. He coughed a little then, eased the death grip he had on his leg. He swallowed, grimacing at the residual taste from his bout of vomiting. Eww.

Wilson looked incredulous. "You don't mean—"

"Not me, you idiot. The patient."

"What patient?" Cuddy demanded. She looked incensed, and he decided if he felt better he'd have taken advantage of the way her décolletage flashed before him as she leaned in angrily. As it was, he felt pleasantly numb.

"You said you'd inform me before taking a patient."

"This is the one over the phone? The consult for Gilmar?" Wilson asked skeptically.  
But it was Cuddy who gave voice to her incredulity. "You're diagnosing reticulohistiocytosis in a phone consult? Are you serious?"

House pulled himself toward the desk, grabbed the phone off the hook. "Yeah. I am."

He stood inside the vestibule slumped over his crutches, listing heavily to the left with his shoulder propped against the wall. The heel of his right foot rested on the floor; the combination of inclement weather, hyperflexion of his Achilles and the generalized myalgia and neuralgia from his quad set his teeth on edge in burgeoning agony. Still, his discomfort at standing was worth the respite. He'd have been content to remain on a bench in the lobby—but for Cuddy's presence. She'd followed him down from his office to continue haranguing him about the diagnosis he'd nailed. Eager to get away, he'd risen to his feet and crutched off in the direction of the parking ramp. Luckily, she hadn't followed.

He shifted slightly, trying for a position that eased some of the developing plantar faciitis in his left foot but found no such place existed. Breathing deeply, he balanced once more to the left and looked up hopefully when Wilson's headlights appeared in the glass windows. Gritting his teeth, he let his left thigh bump into the handicap door activator and hobbled forward gratefully as it swung open. Wilson had risen from the driver's side and come around to open his car door for him; holding it while he backed up to the door and lowered himself into the seat.

"Ahh." he grunted, both at the movement and the unexpected warmth from the heated seats. He relaxed a bit, relinquishing the crutches to Wilson, who closed his door before throwing them into the back. Resting his head against the headrest, he fumbled with the seatbelt as Wilson rejoined him; snapping the buckle into place as the car started forward. Even though it was only ten minutes from the hospital to his front door, the warmth of the car, the residual effect of his pain medication and the exhaustion following a semi-productive day hit him like a ton of bricks. His eyes felt like they were weighted down, and he gave into gravity; let his chin loll toward his chest as his eyes slid closed. He didn't sleep, exactly; but he knew he hadn't really been awake from the first stoplight until Wilson stopped at the curb outside his apartment.

"House?" He started awake when Wilson's hand came to rest on his shoulder; awakening abruptly, eyes flying open as he lifted his chin and peered blearily at the familiar exterior of 221B.

"I'm up." He mumbled thickly, shaking his head as sleep numbed fingers sought the seatbelt release. The belt spooling up was unnaturally loud in the car, and he fumbled for the door handle as Wilson sighed, climbed out of the car and came around to join him. Without thinking, he shifted as though to swing his legs out of the car; only to hiss sharply as pain shot through his leg in protest. Stupid. Panting slightly, he slipped both hands beneath the leg and lifted smoothly, guiding the tortured limb out of the car and then bringing the left leg out to join it. Wilson—to his credit—said nothing as he retrieved the crutches and watched House make a fool out of himself. He stood both crutches upright, and helped counterbalance them as House centered his weight over his left leg and heaved himself to his feet. Slipping the crutch handles into their customary position beneath his armpits, he shot Wilson a look of silent gratitude as he shuffled a couple of steps away from the car. Carefully balanced, he put the crutches up onto the curb and lifted himself up the single step as though he were scaling Mount Everest.

"I'll see you in the morning?" Wilson asked, and House nodded wordlessly. Gripping the handles of the crutches wearily; he hopped one step forward and then another. He heard Wilson's footsteps; heard the car door open and shut. The car remained where it was, though, and he knew Wilson was waiting for him to make it all the way in. His feet ached, his leg ached; along with his shoulders and armpits, which were sore from the crutches. Old injuries and new throbbed in the deepening mist, falling temps and stress of the day. With cold, trembling hands, he pushed the green outer door open and hopped inside, grateful for the radiators blasting away at full steam. Some of the achiness began to ease, much as it had in Wilson's car; and he used a crutch to bat the exterior door closed before withdrawing his apartment keys from his left coat pocket. It was with considerable relief that he keyed the lock and stepped inside; content to be home at last.

He stopped just inside the door, swaying unsteadily for a time after entering before his tired mind reached the decision that sitting would be better than standing. Leaning on one crutch, he put his left hand to the wall and used the other crutch to toe his still-wet shoes off and shed his coat. Stepping cautiously around the expanding puddle of muddy water on the tile floor, he took one hop step, and then another; carefully counting all six steps from the door to the couch. He turned sideways, lay the crutches down, and hopped over two steps before sinking down into his customary spot on the couch. On autopilot, his hand moved to unbuckle his belt and then to the zipper; he lifted himself off the couch enough to slide his dress pants down to pool around his ankles. Freed from the warm confines of his pants, his leg twinged sharply and he held his breath as he swung both legs onto the couch; still wearing his dress shirt and tie. Exhaling tiredly, he let the couch absorb his weight as he leaned back into the crumpled blankets and tattered pillows that made up his nest. As a bonus, the remote was hidden in one of the folds of the comforter and his hand bumped into it as he sleepily pulled the blanket up about himself. He grasped the remote in one hand; pressed the on button with thick fingers and basked in the glow when the screen lit up. Leaning back into the pillows, he wrestled with the blanket long enough to pull one corner up about himself.

Sighing in contentment, he sunk down into the warmth of his nest. Let his head fall back; let his eyes fall closed. The soothing warmth and darkness eased the burning of his tired eyes and cushioned some of the pain that had begun overtaking his body. His thoughts drifted; soup sounded wonderful. As did a hot bath. But his exhaustion overwhelmed him suddenly; his head spun, and his thoughts blurred. In the faint glare of the television screen and the low murmur of voices beneath the steady drumming of rain on the windows; he sunk into sleep in the space between one moment and the next.


	4. Thursday

Our own life is the instrument with which we experiment with the truth.  
-Unknown

Where the sound of rain had lulled him to sleep the night before; the utter silence of snowfall greeted him upon waking the next morning. The soft white light from the windows contrasted with the muted primary colors of the morning news, and he half-listened to the perky morning broadcast crew as he lay motionless on the couch beneath the comforter. Blinking owlishly, he ghosted one hand onto his leg and cautiously felt about the ruined valley of flesh beneath the safety of the blanket. Sharp, jutting patella; scar tissue leading through a narrow fissure and broadening into the scarred flesh that spread from mid-quad up to his hip. He gently traced the still-healing suture lines; knowing the difference between new skin and old without needing to see the tender pink against mottled grey. He squeezed his eyes closed; felt tears pool beneath his eyelids unexpectedly. God, it felt terrible. He let out a shuddering breath as he wrenched his hand away from the offending limb and struggled to focus once more on the news.

"…ten inches of snow fell overnight last night, and while road crews are making progress, city officials are recommending anyone who doesn't need to be out today should stay off the roads."

Perfect. He sighed aloud then, squinting at the TV screen. Nine a.m. already? Wilson should be by soon—he wasn't the type to let a little snow slow him down. And his car had every safety feature known to man. He pushed at the comforter with his left foot as he wrapped both hands around his leg supportively before sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor. With a heavy sigh, he snatched both crutches up and maneuevered himself upright carefully.

The bathroom tile was cold beneath his bare left foot, but the radiator in the corner was ticking away. Crutching up to the toilet, he rested the heel of his right foot on the floor. He tipped his head back in relief; pissing while sitting had gotten old, really quick. He'd been unbelievably proud of himself when he'd been able to stand and piss properly. Again.

Even if he hadn't been able to share the experience with anyone, it had still been a milestone. His business done, he tucked himself back into his pajama pants and hopped to the sink to wash his hands. He'd no sooner turned the water on when the phone began to ring. With a contemplative look at the running water, he turned the spigot off and crutched heavily out into the living room. Snatching the phone off the base by the sixth ring, he spoke gruffly.

"Hello?"

"House. Good, you're up." Wilson sounded breathless. Huh. "I was—Julie's been in an accident." he blurted without warning.

"She okay?" House asked automatically, and Wilson paused before answering.

"They took her to the ER to check her out. But yeah. She should be okay. I—uh. I need to be there with her. Will you be able to make it by yourself this morning?"

He stared out the window at the snow covered sidewalk—at the snow piled on and around his car. He watched a neighbor shuffle slowly over an icy patch and flail wildly when she slid before regaining her balance.

"Yeah." he whispered.

"You there, House?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I have-Will—will you be able to make it in by yourself?"

"Yeah." he said again. He made nice with Wilson long enough to get him off the phone, and then headed into his bedroom. Donning jeans and a pair of tennis shoes, he layered a turtleneck with a jacket before taking up his crutches and making his way to the door. He surveyed the step down to sidewalk level. Looked okay. At least, it wasn't icy on the surface yet, but a few more trips in and out would pack it down pretty quick. Swallowing his fear, he snatched his hat and gloves off the side table and inched slowly out onto the concrete. He took the wrought iron rail in one hand, then leaned the crutches against the wall. He took the steps one at a time; pleased when his footing held down to the sidewalk.

Okay. Feeling pleased, he grasped both crutches once more and poked one into the snow experimentally. Not slick. In that spot, at least. He maneuvered both crutches beneath his armpits and crutched one slow, agonizing step at a time to the passenger side of his car. The snow was deceptively beautiful; pristine, white, flawlessly smooth. But cumulatively, the ten inches came up midcalf and hid all kinds of danger from sight. Breathing heavily for a moment, he fished his keys out of his pocket and scraped the door lock clear. Standing on both crutches with his weight balance to the left, he unlocked the door and then wrestled it open, pleased that the bottom of the door was high enough to clear the snowdrift. Staring into the backseat of the car, he was relieved to find the large blue icescraper where he'd left it, along with the bottle of ice melt and the plastic snow shovel he kept for emergencies.

Like today.

Ordinarily, he'd have started the car and let it defrost by itself while he dug it out—but given the choice of battling the snowdrift on the driver's side, or bending down, climbing across the passenger seat and starting it from where he was; he knew he'd be better off shoveling the car out first, and then starting it. With one gloved hand, he grabbed the snowshovel out of the back seat and slammed the door shut. After a moment's thought, he propped the crutches up, and pivoted to stand with his legs spread to shoulder-width; his right foot resting on the ball before dropping the shovel into the snow. He felt the shovel take the snow's weight; the handle twinged beneath his hand and as he leaned heavily over his left leg, he lifted the shovel to one side and dumped the load on the sidewalk. Instinctively, he straightened to begin the next shovel-step and lifted his right leg to redistribute his weight. Pain shot through his leg from toes to his groin and he groaned aloud, unable to smother the agony that the movement sparked. Unable to complete the motion, he was arrested in a precarious position over his left leg. His delicate balance was easily lost when he swayed too far from his center of gravity and collapsed into a heap in the snow. His leg sparked again; sweat broke out on his forehead and he cried out sharply as the limb went into spasm, the muscles trembling fitfully. He felt the snow beginning to soak through his clothes, the cold began to seep along his exposed skin and he began to tremble all over.

He had no sense of time, save for the knowledge that time began and ended with pain. The icy burn of the snow had quickly numbed his face and neck, wrists and forearms. The pain permeated every part of him, but he had been able to ignore the cold so long as his leg burned. Now, though, he felt the burn of the snow intensify as his body grew steadily colder. He shivered, lifted his chin to stare into the unending blur of white. Now.

Now was the time to move. Before his leg went into spasm again.

"Mr. House?"

He breathed unsteadily, thrust both elbows into the snow and lifted his chest from the ground before rolling onto his side. The leg twinged and he froze, eyes closed; hands wrapped protectively around the limb for long, tense moments before the pain ebbed, and he was able to pull himself into a sitting position with his back against the car. The shovel lay forgotten beside him.

"You okay, Mr. House?"

"Yeah." He muttered faintly.

"Need a hand?"

He opened his eyes to find one of his neighbors kneeling beside him. He nodded, stiffly; tried to push himself up on his own before taking the hand offered to him. She helped him to his feet and held him up while he swayed unevenly on his left foot before resting one hand on the back of the car. He was frozen; soaked to the skin with sweat from the pain and exertion and his tumble in the snow. Beside him, his savior hovered; hands held out awkwardly to catch him if he fell again.

"You should go in. There's no way anyone could clear out that much snow. Besides, the plows haven't been by yet. You'll just have to start over when they show up."

House stood, awkwardly. He could feel his leg trembling; another spasm was building. If he didn't go in now, he wouldn't be able to move in a few minutes. He could envision the breakthrough pain kit he'd assembled under the coffee table. Morphine. 50 mg, in a prefilled syringe.

"Okay." He agreed hoarsely. "Okay. I'll go in."

The kind Samaritan had helped him all the way to his front door; had taken his keys when his shaking hand hadn't made contact with the keyhole after three tries. Staggering inside on his crutches, he'd made it to the couch before his leg gave out; forcing him to sit heavily. Panting, he unzipped his jacket with trembling hands and lifted one arm out of the sleeve; folded his turtleneck back. He kicked the table aside with his left foot before he leaned forward, ignoring the wave of agony the movement prompted as he grasped the box from beneath the coffee table in relief. He prepped the vein at his elbow with frightening efficiency before shooting the dose intravenously. Breathing; he'd sat and stared heavily at the blank television while the dose kicked in. Morphine leeched the color from his vision; the world slowly contracted to shades of gray as the pain faded in the face of the narcotic. Exhaling, he felt every muscle relax; almost become water.  
Water. He remembered his sopping wet jeans and the snow melting in his hair.  
A bath sounded heavenly.  
He rose languidly; nearly stepping off on his right leg before dimly remembering the crutches beside him. He stumbled; narrowly missing the leg of the table before he took them up again. Deciding the wall was useful, he let his shoulder trail along the surface as he wove an unsteady path down to his bathroom. Stucco faded to the cold, white tile of the bath and he sank down on the lip of the tub gracelessly. Turning the water on; he nudged the door closed and began stripping off his wet clothes. Steam began to fill the bathroom, and he lay the crutches aside before withdrawing a water tight bandage from the box on top of the toilet. He gently pressed the seal into place over the remaining penrose drain before lifting his leg over the half wall and sinking down into the water gratefully.

He woke when cold air met his damp skin unexpectedly. Breathing in sharply, he stared at the white tiles until his brain kicked in. The water was cold, he was cold; especially where his knee jutted above the water line. He shivered then, bracing his leg with one hand before he pulled the plug. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he cranked the water on again; grateful the hot water heater had recuperated enough to fill the tub with steaming hot water again. He felt the tension in his leg begin to ease once more and he relished the warmth as much as he relished avoiding another muscle spasm. With his leg satisfied, he turned onto his left hip and peered down the length of his leg in the water. He noted some slight bruising beginning around the knee; undoubtedly from where he'd collapsed on it in the snow. Still, in all—he'd been fortunate that his leg had behaved as well as it had during his excursion. He reached up and turned the tap off, watching the water ripple around his legs and sighed heavily in the silence. As tempting as it was to lie back again, and drift in the warmth; he knew it was in his best interest to get out of the tub as soon as possible.  
He began the difficult task of getting out of the tub; pulling the plug one more time and watching half the water drain away before gripping the wash cloth bar and scrambling to put his left foot over one of the grips Wilson had stuck in the bottom of the tub. He crouched awkwardly on one foot and with one hand on the bar he pushed himself out of the water and edged his left hip onto the tub wall. Breathing heavily, he pushed away from the bar and wrapped his hands around his leg in support before spinning to let his left leg out of the tub and bringing the right one to follow it. Pleased by his success in bathing alone; he dried himself thoroughly and gingerly peeled the watertight seal off the drain before staggering to his feet and reaching for his crutches.  
Skin reddened and warm from the bath, leg pain damped down by the combination of morphine and heat; he crutched into his bedroom and donned a sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants. He briefly considered crawling into bed, but reasoned that the couch at least provided a view of the television—for after his post-morphine nap. Thus decided, he returned to the living room and sank down on the couch. He felt pleasantly numb as he sank into his nest of blankets and lay down on his back. He pressed his head back into the pillows, felt his eyes fall closed. Half-asleep already, he drifted; soaking in the silence as he slipped into a pain-free sleep.

He dreamed. Flashes of light beneath flickering lids; all he could see was a world washed white. Snow surrounded him on all sides—burning, stinging, icy—  
He awoke abruptly, feeling sweat and tears and snot dampening his skin. The apartment was still and silent; he'd fallen asleep without turning the TV on. Weird. He lay still for a moment, uncertain as to why he'd awakened when his leg tingled in warning before searing pain engulfed him from knee to hip. He yelped then, startled by the sharpness and intensity of the pain. Panting, he shifted laboriously to his left side and ground both hands into the mangled flesh; gripping tightly. His breath came short, and spots filled his vision as he kneaded the limb furiously.  
Don't pass out—don't pass out—don'tpassout—he repeated to himself. His jaw was clenched, and his hands ached with the pressure of his grip; but the icy, searing pain was unrelenting. Over the rushing in his ears he could hear his heart pounding; overly loud in the silence of the apartment. Breathing took all of his focus, beneath the pain he was small and diminished. He wasn't strong enoughgoodenoughfastenough—and then—

The pain released him and he collapsed, boneless, into the couch cushions. He felt damp with sweat and ached all over. But the pain was gone. Mostly. He lay still for a long while, unwilling to risk awakening the beast in his leg. But the sweat was drying, and his clothes felt cold and stiff. If he wasn't careful, he'd cause another spasm just by letting his skin get chilled. He needed to change his clothes, at least. So he reluctantly, cautiously, rolled onto his back and began the laborious process of sitting up. Shoving the blankets back, he slid both hands beneath his traitorous leg and lifted it as he swung his feet to the floor. He remained seated for a time, letting the soft tissue in his leg accustom itself to the change in position before he reached for the crutches and prepared to rise. He slid the crutches beneath his arms and rose, wobbling gracelessly on one leg before he was able to ease his right foot to the floor. He breathed unevenly, focusing on the feel of his lungs expanding and contracting against the damp sweatshirt as he felt his leg twinge. The sudden, sharp pain was not unlike a rusty spike being driven into the meat of his thigh. He grunted then; still surprised despite the familiarity of the pain—only to cry out in surprise when the pain sharpened. Fire sizzled along the ruined nerves, racing through his veins like current through an open circuit. Unable to remain standing in the intensity of the onslaught, he collapsed back onto the couch as though his strings had been cut. Desperation struck him then; the dawning realization that the pain was increasing and he knew instinctively that if he didn't stop the building spasm in its tracks—now—he wasn't going to be able to in a matter of minutes. Heedless of the fleeting pain of a position change beneath the bubbling geyser, he leaned forward over the mangled limb and dove into the emergency box next to the couch. With trembling fingers he turned the numbers of the combination before throwing the padlock aside. He thrust open the lid, and hurriedly picked through the side compartment where he'd left a supply of prefilled syringes. He tossed aside rubber ties, a stethoscope, and bloodstoppers only to realize he was out of prefilled. He found a single syringe at the bottom of the box that he divested of its' packaging before he came to the smooth glass of the morphine bottle. Hands shaking, he raised the bottle to peer inside and felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with breakthrough pain.  
It was empty. He threw it aside; questing fingers dove once more into the box and produced another empty bottle, and then another. No morphine. Not a drop. He dropped the syringe, swallowing fear. Already he felt his hold on consciousness slipping, washing the room out in grays and whites. He felt cold, shaky; pain was leaking from his leg and spreading throughout the rest of him; a cold fire rushing through his veins to muscles and limbs and setting off a flurry of pain signals that his brain could not handle all at once. As he sank toward blessed unconsciousness, he could only think of Wilson.

Wilson would find him.


	5. Friday

The mystery of existence is the connection between our faults and our misfortunes.

\- Madame de Stael

Unlike yesterday, the gray skies had lightened and appeared devoid of precipitation when he parked his car on the far side of Baker Street. He conscientiously checked for oncoming traffic before opening his door; the memory of Julie's bruised cheekbone and black eye came to mind and he winced before glancing at his own bumper. Thankfully, she'd been alright; just some bruising and slight whiplash from the way her head had impacted against the steering wheel. Her car hadn't fared so well, however. He jogged across the street, pausing to look at House's snow bound car before he bounded up the steps. Given the amount of snow piled on and around it, he sincerely hoped House had taken one look out the window and called a cab. He stomped his shoes on the rugs in the entry thoroughly, always mindful of tracking snow into the apartment where House could slip on it. He pulled his keys out and flipped idly til he produced the right key and slipped it into the lock.

The apartment was dim, save for the flickering light of the TV. Wilson sighed; House had been doing really well so far—he supposed it was inevitable that as the week wore on, he would be more likely to oversleep. Still, he mused as he took off his shoes—House had been exhausted after his day on Wednesday. And whatever had precipitated that incident of bradycardia; well, he was bound to be tired. House's cardiac issues were lingering longer than either of them had anticipated. There was always the risk of another thrombosis despite his daily dose of Coumadin; and House's heart had been prone to arrhythmias since he'd arrested following the renal failure. Feeling suddenly anxious, he shed his coat and crossed to the couch. House was asleep, curled in his nest of blankets with his face obscured. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he noted the blankets rising and falling to the cadence of House's breathing.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty." He singsonged. Snatching the remote from where it was hidden at the back of the couch, he turned the power off and dropped it back on to House's chest. He didn't stir, so Wilson snagged the edge of the blanket and pulled it down. But instead of screwing his eyes shut and groaning at the unwanted intrusion; House didn't move. Wilson had ducked behind the couch reflexively, but with the lack of response, he felt his anxiety creep back in. He stood up abruptly; half-expecting a ruse, but House seemed to be genuinely asleep.

"House?" he asked aloud. Still no response. House was normally a light sleeper. Feeling his concern rise, he crossed to the front of the couch and was startled to find House's emergency medical box was open beneath the coffee table. He knelt swiftly, finding the contents strewn about half in, half out of the box. Blood stoppers, gauze, stethoscope, tourniquets—and a single used syringe. Glancing up, he eyed the empty bottle of Embeda on the table before he snatched House's wrist and tried to still the trembling in his fingers so he could find a pulse. Had House overdosed? He might have OD'd on his Embeda without meaning to—but, no.

He wasn't bradycardic. He was tachycardic. House's pulse hammered beneath his fingertips, and Wilson looked up to House's face; he was pale, sweating. His eyes were shadowed and his respiration was fast and shallow.

"Shit." He muttered, peeling the blankets back from House's prone body and was startled to see House's leg visibly spasming. "Shit. Shit." he growled, lunging for the phone on the end table and dialing 9-1-1.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My name is James Wilson, I'm a doctor. I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street. Patient is a 40-year-old male, unconscious, suffering severe breakthrough pain. He's tachycardic, heart rate is over 140."

He shoved the blankets off of House entirely, placed his hands on his leg to check the limb. It was rock hard; every muscle seized, nerves sending a flurry of signals to House's brain. How long had he been unconscious? How long had he been in agony? Running his gaze over the flannel, he blanched when he encountered a puddle of blood. Without needing to look, he knew the problem had instantly become much more serious. "Patient is on Warfarin and is bleeding, a surgical site has been opened."

Rummaging in the emergency box, he came up with a pair of gloves and a set of bandage scissors; he hurried to pull the gloves on before he cut House's pajama pants from waistband to knee in one smooth stroke. There it was—one of the vertical stitch lines that ran from hip to knee. House looked to have torn the sutures holding the single remaining penrose drain somehow—and blood seeped steadily along the exposed flesh. God, it was everywhere. In the blankets, in the couch cushions. Reaching back into the box, he tore open a package and pressed the bloodstopper into position; held it there while the 911 technician chattered away in his ear.

"Ambulance should be there within five minutes, sir."

"He may not have five minutes." Wilson said through clenched teeth. Had the tear been any larger, or should House's heart rate have crept any higher—odds were good he would have bled out long before Wilson had arrived. As it was, House's heart rate was beginning to fluctuate with the blood pressure changes; Wilson could feel it beneath his fingertips. Still, why hadn't House taken another dose—wait. Wilson's gaze found the spent syringe on the floor. He had taken one dose—why not another? House was being cautious about rationing his pain meds—not wanting to develop a tolerance. But still, he should have taken enough to stop the pain cycle. Unless—Wilson searched the box with his eyes, realizing with a sinking feeling that House hadn't been able to take another dose. There weren't any more syringes in there.

Oh, House. He squeezed his hand comfortingly; wanting his friend to know he wasn't alone. How long had he lain there, unable to stop the pain? How long until he had simply passed out, leaving the spasm to continue, unabated? 'Til the still-present penrose drain had torn loose of the sutures holding it in place?

The sound of the door opening drew his attention; he looked up to see two uniformed paramedics come barging through the door. One carried an AED, the other carried a bag and both wheeled the gurney between them.

"You're a doctor?" one asked as they lowered the gurney and then sat down beside House. Wilson continued to hold his hand, but moved over to give them access.

"Yes, so is he. He has CRPS following a muscle debridement caused by rhabomyolysis. Recent history of severe renal, cardiac and hepatic crises. Known clotting disorder, takes warfarin 10 mg daily. Heart rate 150, suffering severe muscle spasm. Torn sutures around a penrose drain. Give him 75mg morphine, 40 mg lorazepam IM, stat." Wilson ordered. He continued to hold the blood stopper in place until one of the paramedics produced another and a roll of tape and secured the two of them to House's leg. The other pushed the meds, and Wilson sighed in relief when he saw the limb stop trembling at last. Relieved of his pain, House remained unconscious but tears rolled down his cheeks.

"House." Wilson said softly. "Hey, I told you we'd get it stopped."

"BP is 100/50. Heart rate at 140." Both paramedics worked together to get House lifted onto the gurney. They forewent the neck brace, instead lifting him into a semi-seated position and sliding a cushion under his right knee. An oxygen mask was untangled, and pressed into service. He rose to his feet as they lifted the gurney, and held House's hand until they got him out the door. Retracing his footsteps, he swiftly grabbed his coat, keys and House's cell phone before locking the door behind him.

"I'm riding with you." He announced grimly, and climbed in the back before they could stop him. "Princeton-Plainsborough, guys."

With one eye on House's gray face, he used his own cell to call Cuddy and asked her to have House's primary medical team standing by on arrival, along with a pint of AB. She promised to contact them and meet him down in the ER. Wilson scarcely paid attention to the rest of the trip; the only thing he noted was that House's chest continued to rise and fall as it should, and that no new spasms started. Their arrival at PPTH was abrupt; Wilson was jarred out of his thoughts as the rear doors suddenly opened and he swung his legs up onto the bench he was sitting on so he was out of the way of the EMTs. The ER personnel had the gurney out and moving in record time down to the main bay; Wilson trailed along behind, trying to follow the rapid report of vitals as nurses swarmed the gurney and transferred House's limp body from the gurney to a bed.

"Dr. House? Can you hear me? Dr. House?" one of the nurses began to ask, jostling House's shoulder to gauge his state of consciousness. He was limp and unresponsive; pale and clammy. Failing to garner a response, the nurse surrendered the job to one of the ER physicians who first prised House's eyelids open and then flashed his penlight in each eye.

"Dr. House? Can you wake up for me?" he asked, and pocketed his penlight before taking a straight pin and poking House in the finger. Failing that, he stepped back and waited for the nursing staff to divest him of his clothes. His t-shirt was cut off, the remainder of his pajama pants were cut away. The same ER doc stepped back in and drove his knuckles into House's sternum. Wilson flinched as the man still failed to garner any kind of response. Wilson slowly exhaled; feeling more anxious about House's continuing unresponsiveness than the torn penrose or his uncontrolled breakthrough pain. The ER physician—his nametag proclaimed he was JON ANDERSON—stepped away from the bed then to add his notes to the chart while another nurse pressed a new oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

"Dr. Anderson? Do you want a wide-bore IV, or should we go to a central line?"

Anderson hesitated, throwing a questioning look in Wilson's direction. Even now, he was House's defacto proxy. Wilson frowned and nodded unhappily. House would be more comfortable if he had another central line as opposed to an IV in each arm. Odds were good that House was going to be in need of support for some time. Again. One nurse began palpating House's neck for the internal jugular before piercing the skin and running the guidewire in. While she completed the CVC placement, another nurse began placing the pads for the 12 lead EKG on his chest. When the last lead was connected, Wilson watched as the monitor lit up, displaying House's still beating heart. He stared hard at the screen, his eye tracing the QRS; looking for any abnormalities. Unfortunately, he hadn't really concerned himself with reading an EKG since his rotation through the ER in residency. He hated to concede defeat, but beyond knowing that the QRS was monomorphic with narrow waves, he really had no idea what he was looking at. He remained stoically silent, gritting his teeth to keep from demanding answers while the ER staff finished hanging the ringer's lactate to get his pressure back up, vitamin K to counteract the effects of the Warfarin; then drew blood to run House's electrolytes and put in an arterial line to measure his blood gasses. A third port was added to the CVC to begin the blood transfusion and a bag of AB neg blood joined the other bags hanging on the pole.

"Wilson."

He turned abruptly to find Dr. Cuddy hurrying toward him in her ridiculously high heels, still wearing her heavy wool coat and carrying her briefcase. She gave him a tightlipped smile, and sidled over to stand beside him. He shifted slightly to face her before returning his attention to the flurry of activity in the ER bay.

"How is he? What happened?"

"I don't know." Wilson admitted softly. "He's been non-responsive since I found him this morning. He was locked into breakthrough pain; passed out on his couch. Somehow he tore the sutures holding the penrose drain in place and was bleeding…" Wilson took a deep breath, still unwilling to think about what might have happened if he hadn't gone to check on House that morning.

"Why didn't he treat the breakthrough pain?" Cuddy wondered aloud. "I know he assembled a pain kit—hell, I gave him the prescriptions for the pre-packaged morphine."

"He—ah—he did treat it. What he could." Wilson swallowed, remembering the horror he'd felt at finding House out of syringes. At the sight of his friend writhing in pain, and his unconscious tears when the morphine had finally brought relief. "He used his last one."

"Oh, Jesus." Cuddy breathed in sharply, and Wilson could see tears shimmer under her eyelashes. The ER staff looked to have completed all their admitting tasks, and Wilson watched silently as the ER physician spoke quietly with the nurses before moving to join them.

"Dr. House is as stable as we can get him down here. I understand Dr. House's primary team is standing by in the OR to assess the situation with his penrose drain; they've asked we leave everything in place until he arrives. He'll be taken up to the OR shortly."

"Thank you, Dr. Anderson." Cuddy said quietly.

Wilson had finally remembered to remove his own jacket as he trailed House's bed from the ER up to the third floor. While Cuddy had made tracks for her office—Wilson had opted to follow House upstairs to the OR. Despite the presence of House's handpicked team, he knew he wouldn't feel better until he'd heard House was out of the woods. He'd been surprised when he'd felt a trickle of sweat at the back of his neck, and swiped at it; only to realize that he'd soaked through his dress shirt. Still, he scarcely slackened his pace as he followed the gurney. He paused only for the elevator; since there wasn't room for him and the gurney, too. Once upstairs, he shed his jacket in the waiting room and made a beeline for the OR main desk.

"OR 3, Dr. Wilson." The nurse called, and Wilson flashed her a smile in gratitude.

"Thanks, Melissa."

He blew through the doors into the scrub room, where he found House's preferred surgeon, Simpson, scrubbing in.

"Ah, Dr. Wilson. I wondered how long it would take you to get here." He greeted coolly, and Wilson tried to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He'd never liked Simpson, and knew House didn't either. But he was a damn good surgeon.

"Simpson."

"Looks like we're going to go ahead and pull the drain. He's had minimal discharge for almost a month now, and it's more trouble than it's worth to place another one right now."  
Wilson nodded absently, envisioning the 3 inches of the penrose as it protruded from House's leg, and the 14 inches than ran down the length inside of House's ruined muscle. Who knew what damage the drain had done to the muscle tissue and blood vessels deep down inside?

"We're ultrasounding his leg—I want to see if he's got any hemorrhaging around the drain before I pull it. We'll anesthetize, pull the drain, tie off any bleeders down inside, and top him off."

Wilson nodded, and walked to the window. He could see House as he was transferred, again, from his bed to the operating table. He was still unconscious, and Wilson sighed softly as the nurses rolled the ultrasound machine closer to the bed and cautiously squirted the gel onto his leg before beginning to gently move the wand around the open, mangled flesh. Behind him, Simpson finished his scrub and dried his hands, holding them aloft as he brushed the door opener with his hip.

"If you're hanging around for the procedure, you'd better be up on the deck. I don't like anyone looking over my shoulder. That goes for Cuddy, too." Simpson called as he swept through the open door. Wilson felt his lips twitch up into a smile despite his annoyance. No wonder House had picked Simpson; he was a callous, insensitive asshole.

But he knew his stuff.

Wilson waited up in the observation lounge. House had been stripped of his gown before being secured onto the table by heavy straps. He looked frail and lost, lying naked on the table save for a tiny slip of fabric protecting his modesty. Simpson was there, gowned, masked, and gloved at last. He'd hovered near the ultrasound machine for a long while; requesting different shots and angles as he tried to get an accurate picture of any damage done to the surrounding tissue.

"How's it looking?" Cuddy asked, and Wilson turned in surprise to see her standing just inside the doorway.

"Simpson's going to pull the drain. He's checking for hemorrhaging along the site."

"It'd be easier if we could just put him on anti-coagulants, pull the drain and roll him into recovery." She sighed, and Wilson nodded in agreement.

"The last thing he needs is another clot."

"I know." Cuddy sighed heavily. "We'll have to hope the vitamin K will prove sufficient."

They sat in silence for a time, watching as Simpson finished berating his OR team and waved in another one of House's chosen physicians. His cardiac specialist was Dr. Morris; a thin, trim, balding man in his early fifties. He too, was already gloved and gowned. He specialized in cardiac medicine, but was one of the few physicians who was both specialist and surgeon. They consulted the ultrasound and cardiac monitors for a few minutes, before coming to some sort of an agreement. Dr. Morris stepped away then from the screen and over to the intercom mounted in the wall. He hit the switch with his elbow.

"Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson shot to his feet and hit observation room's intercom button near the window. Cuddy came to stand near him, as well.

"Yes?"

"Looks like we have some damage to the femoral. The drain looks to have been compressed and the ultrasound shows a decreased blood flow in the area. We may need to consider placing a stent."

Wilson sighed, heavily. His hand reached for the back of his neck of its own accord. Cuddy blanched, and cast a sad look down into the OR.

"In addition to that, Dr. House appears to be developing an arrhythmia. "Dr. Morris stepped closer to the vitals screen and put one finger on the tiny lines to the right of the QRS. "P waves are falling off after the QRS. It's manageable for now with adenosine." With Morris' finger right on the abnormality, Wilson could see it. He drew a deep breath and held it for a long moment, exhaling slowly.

"How do you want to proceed?"

Wilson gave Cuddy a searching look, but she looked away for a long moment. Wilson, too, stared down into the OR. House was lying flat on his back, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. Every moment they hesitated to do what needed to be done, more blood seeped into the muscle. His heart worked harder to circulate a decreased supply. There wasn't really anything to decide.

"As long as you can manage the arrhythmia, let's proceed." Wilson said at last.

He hated waiting. Sitting up high on the observation deck, he cradled a tiny Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands and stared at the top of the surgical team's heads. He'd been unable to stomach watching anything else. Cuddy had disappeared shortly before they'd begun the procedure; citing any number of meetings scheduled for the day. He'd promised to keep her updated. House had been strapped to the table with webbed straps. He'd been anesthetized and intubated, and the table had been flipped 30 degrees to the left; exposing the length of House's right leg beneath the bright surgical lamps. Dr. Morris had taken up a position near the cardiac monitors and stood next to his own team, and a tray loaded with everything from adenosine to a defibrillator. The nurses had quickly snapped the drapes into place, and Simpson had called for his scalpel. There had been no skin to slice through, only the vivid red of blood clotted over muscle and the thin bands of pink and gray scar tissue along the margins. Wilson had watched for a time, admiring the precision with which Simpson snipped the tiny sutures holding the drain above the incision line. He'd winced when Simpson's scalpel cut into the muscle of House's quadriceps, knowing each incision through the puckered flesh took months from House—hard-fought months of recovery and rehabilitation. Simpson moved down the length of his leg, exposing the smooth white of the penrose drain. Wilson held his breath for a moment, wondering why Simpson hadn't just gone ahead and pulled the drain back through instead of opening the entire leg back up; but he didn't dare ask. Simpson knew as well as any of them how hard House had fought to get back on his feet. Whatever Simpson might have been, he wasn't foolish enough to risk House's wrath with an unnecessary procedure.  
"Suction." Simpson ordered, and Wilson turned away when he saw the nurses begin to clear the surgical field. Simpson paused, staring intently at the video screen as he threaded a camera through the incision and down, down; deep into the fascia of House's leg.  
Wilson sank back into the padded chair and stared listlessly at the floor. He could hear the suctioning, and occasionally, a grunted comment from Simpson as he released the rest of the drain. Then a faint sucking sound as Simpson pulled the drain clear of House's leg.

"More suction."

Unable to stop himself, Wilson rose to his feet and moved to the monitor tucked in the corner. He watched Simpson drop the entire 14 inch drain into a basin and then lift his gaze to where Wilson lurked in the observation booth.

"Dr. Wilson?"

"I'm here." Wilson replied.

"The femoral artery is partially 'll need to dilate and then place a stent."

"How does his heart rate look? BP?" Wilson asked anxiously.

Dr. Morris spoke up. "Heart rate is holding steady; the adenosine has alleviated the P-waves for the moment. BP is 100/65."  
Wilson nodded, forgetting that neither man could see him.

"Let's finish it." He said bravely.

Simpson was moving faster this time; he inserted the guidewire into the femoral artery before passing the balloon catheter down inside. Wilson remained near the monitor this time; staring intently at the screen as Simpson used the tiny camera to guide the catheter to the right spot where the artery was occluded and pumped air into the balloon to re-inflate it. Simpson nodded to one of the nurses who stood at House's feet with a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his left ankle. She studied the sphygmomanometer's digital reading before nodding.

"90/60, doctor."

"Dr. Morris?" Simpson asked quietly.

"We show 100/65, Dr. Simpson. Surprisingly consistent."

"Good, good." Simpson passed the stent along the guidewire while Wilson held his breath. The stent moved smoothly into position in the artery before Simpson inflated the balloon to push it into place. The stent expanded, the wiry mesh borders filling the video screen in every direction.

"BP?" Simpson asked again.

"Femoral at 90/60." The nurse said quietly.

"Holding at 100/65." Morris repeated. Simpson stood up straight once more; his shoulders square and his jaw thrust out.

"Let's close him up quick. I don't want to push our luck."

Wilson sagged into a padded chair once more. He listened to the low buzz of chatter in the OR as Simpson backed the balloon catheter out of the artery, and then began oversewing the muscle, one layer at a time as he surfaced. The noise level rose slightly in the OR, as Simpson finished suturing what skin remained around House's mangled leg, and packed the rest with gauze until it could clot over once more. Wilson shook his head sadly; feeling tears threaten at thought of House starting all over again. He'd scarcely thought it when the heart rate monitor began to beep ominously.

"Dr. Morris?" Simpson asked, and Wilson flew back to the window to find Simpson looked dismayed as he and his team stepped back out of the way and let Morris' team fly into action as the heart monitor accelerated precipitously.

"AV nodal re-entrant tachycardia. 25 mg amiodarone." Morris said calmly; as though he'd been waiting for it. Wilson shuddered; perhaps he had been. The cardiac team carried out his order swiftly; and all eyes flew to the ECG read out, hoping for a miracle. Instead, House's heart rate continued to accelerate, over 120 bpm and increasing.

"No effect, doctor."

"QRS waves are widening, his potassium is rising. 50 mg verapamil."

Wilson swallowed his panic as Morris' team began to swarm. Morris took the syringe offered to him and injected it into House's central line. Again, the team froze; waiting anxiously to see if the medication would work.

It didn't.

Instead, the QRS waves on the screen began to come closer and closer together. They were shorter and more round. The monitors began to whine steadily, and Wilson turned away from the glass and bit back a sob. Not again.

"We have a run of v-tach! Heart rate up to 160!"

"All right, folks," Morris said calmly, "let's get set up to cardiovert."

Morris unhooked all three of the lines from House's CVC as two of the nurses flipped House onto his back and secured the bed in a reclined position. They stripped him of his gown, and placed the defibrillator pads on his chest; low on the right side, and high on the left.

"Heart rate up to 190."

"Heads up, ladies and gents: we'll cardiovert at 200." Morris said, and Wilson felt a tear trickle down his cheek. "How's his BP look?"

"85/55."

"Once we get him back in sinus rhythm, I want to push fluids. We need to get his pressure back up as soon as we can. I don't want to do this more than once." Morris speared Simpson with a look, and he nodded.

"We'll be ready to push as soon as he can be hooked up again." Simpson promised. One of the nurses darted out the door to get her hands on some plasma and another bag of ringer's. She was back almost before Wilson could blink. The heart monitor, which had been steadily beeping suddenly switched to a shrill whine as House's heart appeared to pause in motion.

"Charging 200." someone called, and Morris leaned over the side to push the button. With the pads on House's chest, there was no need to take up the paddles. House's body lurched within the restraints and Wilson cried out softly. House didn't respond. The monitor still screamed in the silence of the room, but instead of a flat line, occasional peaks and valleys.

"Asystole?" Wilson heard himself ask quietly, and Morris shook his head.

"No! Not asystole." He traced a finger along the screen before staring up into the observation deck. "Ventricular fibrillation. The ventricles are moving; you can see it in the electrical activity the ECG is picking up. They're just not contracting." Morris held his hands away from the screen, and called out; "Charging 300! Clear!"

It was only noon, yet it felt like midnight when he finally tossed the mutilated remnants of his Styrofoam cup into the trash; cheering inwardly when it fell neatly into the basket. He rose stiffly from the chair he'd finally dragged to the window sprawling over the surgical bay and stretched for a moment; watching as the nurses circled the gurney before beginning its' trek toward the swinging doors that led into the recovery room. Staggering down the circular staircase into the scrub room, he paused to give House's primary team a weary look of gratitude. If it hadn't been for Simpson's steady hands, Morris' steely nerves and the persistence of the nurses; House might well have died from a simple procedure to remove a penrose drain.

"Thank you." He said softly, and Simpson gave a curt nod.

"I didn't do it for you. Or for him. I just don't want that son of a bitch haunting me from the other side." He said shortly. Wilson stared at him in amazement; there was almost an element of concern in the surgeon's eyes.

"Yes, well…" Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, stymied by the near emotion Simpson expressed for House's well-being. "Thanks."

"We'll park him in the cardiac ICU once he's out of recovery." Morris said, even as he stripped off his surgical top and tossed it in the laundry tote. "I don't anticipate any problems now that we have his pressure stable and the bleeding stopped. But, his cardiac issues are damn site more complex than I ever anticipated, and I'd rather keep ahead of him."

Wilson took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay." He sighed then, realizing for the first time since he'd discovered House's tachycardia that he'd completely forgotten all of his morning appointments. "How long do you think you'll keep him this time?"

"If he's stable, I think we could let him go within 24 hours to the floor. Do we know what precipitated this?"

Wilson sighed again, and shrugged. "He had a round of breakthrough pain he wasn't able to adequately treat. The leg went into spasm, I assume, tearing the sutures. He passed out, and the cycle continued."

"Is the Embeda working for him?" Morris asked bluntly. He'd finished stripping everything but his scrubs off, and was donning his lab coat.

"Yes and no." Wilson admitted reluctantly. It felt like he was conspiring against House; but then, he was an adult and a damned good doctor and he was ignoring—

"Which is it?" Morris asked impatiently, gesturing for Wilson to lead the way out of the scrub room. He scrambled to the door, and tapped the door opener with his elbow on the way out.

"He says he's fine, but he's had two bouts of bradycardia. He's had breakthrough pain twice, as well."

"Is the bradycardia precipitating the breakthrough pain?" Morris wondered aloud; Wilson trailing in his wake as they took the stairs one flight up to the cardiac unit.

Wilson hesitated; he hadn't been present when House had simply passed out, or when the pain had started, really. "I couldn't say."

Morris took the lead now, moving in long strides through the hall; past the nurses' station to the cardiac ICU which was set up in a glass-walled corner suite. Wilson could see from down the hall where the floor staff situated his bed in the room and began the process of settling him in. They reconnected the 12-lead cardiac monitor; the numbers jumping up on the digital display beside the bed. There was more information than he was accustomed to seeing; but his numbers all looked good. One of the nurses threw House's blanket back, and closely examined the gauze covering his leg for signs of bleeding; she examined his toes, checking the nail beds for color and then carefully inflated the BP cuff around his ankle to check his femoral pressure. 90/60. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief, and Morris nodded.

"Simpson did a good job placing the stent. And I think it was long past time for that drain to come out."

"He had recurring infections for the first couple of months, and once he started PT, he would develop hematomas if he even bumped the leg against something." Wilson came to House's defense, although he wasn't sure why he felt the need to do so. It wasn't like House had done either on purpose.

"I know." Morris smiled indulgently. "He's doing well, Dr. Wilson. He's just had a little setback. He'll be back to his charming self before you know it."

Wilson smiled despite himself; knowing Morris was right. House would wake up later; they'd laugh about Wilson's panic, make a joke or two about Life Alert—and they'd move on. After everything he'd been through these past months, there one thing he could definitely say about House: he was certainly resilient.


End file.
